Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 51, No. 2, June 28, 1930

Hugo Oakes passes up some big money to solve the mystery of the broken lantern...

I

Hugo Oakes was leaning back in his chair comfortably. He was trying to roll a cigarette, but not succeeding very well. Most of the tobacco had already trickled down on his wrinkled and bespotted vest. Yet he seemed vastly pleased.

The papers on the desk in front of him may have had something to do with his mood; he had been retained as the legal representative of a wealthy gentleman named Markum, whose carelessness had involved him with the law. Money! Big money!

His short, fat body heaved and he sighed a satisfied sigh. Then he turned to his stenographer, who had a desk in a corner of the same dingy office room.

“Mamie,” said Oakes, “we got to work hard to-day on this Markum case. Can’t lose no time.”

Oakes was capable of magnificent eloquence in a court room speech, but elsewhere he talked as if he had studied English in the back room of a district police station.

“And, Mamie, I ain’t going to let no penniless bum interrupt me, either.”

“Yes, sir,” said Mamie, very seriously.

“What’s more, Mamie, I ain’t never going to let no poverty stricken fool that gets himself into trouble waste my time. I’m off this charity stuff forever.”

“Yes, sir.”

Oakes pounded the desk.

“No. From now on I got to see the cash before I lift a little finger. Cash in advance, Mamie. No exceptions. Now we’ll get busy on this Markum case. And if any one comes butting in—”

The door was opened. Rather, it flew open. A young man was standing in the doorway.

He was quite a young man, not much over twenty. A rather undersized young man, whose bow tie was twisted to an almost vertical position, whose hand trembled on the doorknob, and whose eyes were wide with agitation.

Oakes glared at him indignantly. The young man closed the door, and hurried in.

“Mr. Oakes?” he inquired.

“Yeah. But I’m busy.”

“It’s awful important, Mr. Oakes.”

The young man’s voice was rising, until it was almost shrill.

“Important! Huh! It may be important to yon, young feller, but to me—”

“The cops are after me,” blurted out the young man.

Oakes began to roll another cigarette. He shifted uneasily in his chair.

“Cops or no cops,” he objected vigorously, “I’m busy, and I can’t be bothered—”

“They’re after me!” the young man repeated.

“Well, why come to me?”

“I read about you in the papers—”

“Have you got any money?”

“Why, no, sir, but—”

“Then get out,” said Hugo Oakes.

The young man looked at him, despairingly, his mouth open.

“But they’re after me,” he insisted. “I called up home not long ago, and found out — they’re after me.”

“What for?”

“Murder.”

“Well, you shouldn’t commit murder — not unless you got money.”

“I didn’t,” the young man protested.

“Another innocent victim of circumstances,” Oakes sneered. “What’s your name?”

“Larry — Larry Deronda.”

“Who got killed?”

“Mr. Lanyon. Sydney Lanyon.”

In spite of himself, Oakes looked interested.

“Lanyon, eh? Big theatrical guy, ain’t he?”

“A big bum,” exploded Larry Deronda.

“Well, I guess he is by this time,” Oakes grinned. “Where did he get killed?”

“Out on the county highway, near the Broken Lantern.”

“Broken Lantern? Who busted it?”

“That’s a road house, Mr. Oakes. Called the Broken Lantern. There’s another road house right across the highway from it called the Blue Plume. They found Lanyon on the road outside the Broken Lantern.”

“When was this?”

“Oh, about three o’clock this morning, sir. Maybe a little before.”

“What was Lanyon doing out there at three o’clock this morning?”

“He was with my sister, Myrtle.”

“Ah! And what was your sister doing out there at three o’clock this morning?”

“Why, she — Sis was a waitress in the Broken Lantern. She works until two in the morning. Lanyon called for her when she got off work, and took her across the road to the Blue Plume.”

“Lanyon was sweet on your sister, was he?”

Larry Deronda screwed up his face as if he was about to weep.

“He... he was a dirty liar, Mr. Oakes. He claimed he was going to put Sis on the stage, and all that hooey. But he... he—”

“You mean his intentions weren’t honorable?”

“Sure. I mean he was a dirty skunk.”

Apparently Oakes had completely forgotten that he was very busy on the Markum case. He leaned across the desk, and let his half-rolled cigarette drop on the floor.

“Now, Larry, what were you doing out on the county highway at three o’clock in the morning?”

Larry Deronda flushed.

“I... I was watching them, Mr. Oakes. I was afraid something might happen to Sis. I warned her, but she wouldn’t listen to me. So I went out there to watch them.”

“Tut, tut! Spying on your own sister! Did you see anything?”

“Not much, sir. There’s a field on one side of the Blue Plume. I was in the field, looking through a side window. Sis and Lanyon were sitting at a table. Then a waiter came up and gave a message to Sis. Pretty soon she got up and walked out. She walked across the highway toward the Broken Lantern. Then, in few minutes, the waiter went to the table again and gave Lanyon a message, and he got up and went out, too.”

“That was the last you saw of them?”

“No, sir. That is, it was the last I saw of Sis. I stayed there in the field. But after a while I got to thinking maybe they were not coming back to the Blue Plume. I figured I’d better cross the road where I could look into the Broken Lantern. So I got through the fence and sneaked across the highway—”

Larry Deronda’s legs seemed to get weak suddenly. He dropped into a chair.

“Well?” Oakes prompted.

“I... I was across the road, Mr. Oakes, almost directly in front of the Broken Lantern, and I ran right into the body of a man lying by the side of the road. There was a little light, and I leaned over and saw that it was Lanyon. Well, I felt like yelling at the top of my voice, I was so glad to see that rat dead. But, at that, I was pretty scared.”

“And so you went into the Broken Lantern and called up the police?” Oakes suggested.

“No, sir. Not me. I was kneeling there, staring down at Lanyon, when I heard something. I looked up, and saw somebody had come out of the Broken Lantern. First thing I knew, the fellow was almost up to me, looking at me. Well, I just beat it. My old rattletrap was a couple of hundred feet up the highway, and I hopped in and rambled on.”

“And now the cops are after you.”

“Yes, sir. I kept under cover the rest of the night. Just scared. And just before I came up here I phoned home to see if Sis got home all right. And mother told me the cops were after me.”

Oakes’s little eyes were gleaming with interest. Then he suddenly glared at the young man.

“You ought to go to jail,” he reproved him, gruffly. “In fact, you got to go to jail. We can’t have this — a suspected murderer running around loose.”

“What do you want me to do?” asked Larry Deronda, disappointedly.

“Get right down to headquarters and give yourself up,” said Oakes sternly. “Ask for Inspector Mallory; tell him I said to give you the best cell in the place.”

The young man got up. His legs were still shaky. He fumbled with his cap.

“Then you’ll do something for me?”

“I ain’t saying what I’ll do. I’m pretty busy. You just beat it, right now.”

And Oakes began to shuffle a pile of papers on his desk. Larry Deronda looked at him in embarrassed silence. Then he turned and stumbled out of the office.

Oakes continued to fuss with his papers for a few moments. Presently he leaned back, with a heavy sigh, and reached for his hat.

“Mamie,” he barked.

“Yes, sir.”

“When that fellow Markum calls up, tell him I’m too busy to attend to him to-day.”

“Yes, sir.”

Oakes pushed his hat over his shiny pate, and heaved himself wearily out of his chair.

“And, Mamie,” he added, ferociously. “If Markum don’t like it, tell him he can go get some one else to do his dirty work.”

II

When Hugo Oakes got off the bus in front of the Broken Lantern, two men were standing in the road, near a telephone pole, talking. Oakes approached them.

“Headquarters men?”

Their reception was not very warm. Oakes’s appearance was scarcely impressive, and the interruption obviously irritated them. One of them, however, spoke to him.

“No. The bulls are gone now.”

“H’m. Too bad. I’d like to get a line on this killing business. I’m Oakes — Hugo Oakes.”

The other man at once became friendly. His teeth, which were wedded to a cigar, showed in a smile; a golden smile. It was evident that he had heard of Hugo Oakes.

“Well, well, Mr. Oakes. Maybe we can help you. I’m Collman, proprietor of the Blue Plume. And this is Mr. Bouchet — Jim Bouchet. Jim runs the Broken Lantern here.”

Mr. Jim Bouchet, of the Broken Lantern, was a large man whose none too agreeable face had been rendered still further ineligible as a thing of beauty by a flattened nose and a couple of ears that had been whacked out of shape in some physical encounter.

Oakes shook hands with them.

“Glad you two gents are on good terms,” he remarked. “Hardly expected to find you two chatting like this. Competitors, ain’t you?”

“Sure,” growled Bouchet, of the Broken Lantern. “But we don’t mind that.”

“Open for business, are you?” Oakes asked:

“No,” said Collman. “Neither of us opens until six in the evening. And keep open until four in the morning. But this murder has kept us around here. Ain’t it, Jim?”

Bouchet nodded.

“Where did they find Lanyon?” Oakes inquired.

Bouchet stuck his foot forward, and indicated a spot in the road with the end of his shoe.

“Right there.”

The spot indicated was just on the edge of the road. It was about forty feet from the front of the Broken Lantern. There was a vacant space between the road house and the road, used, doubtless, for the parking of cars.

“This Lanyon come out here often?”

“Quite a bit, lately,” said Bouchet. “Came out to see the girl, Myrtle Deronda. She worked in my place. He’d come out about the time she got off, around two in the morning, and take her over to the Blue Plume, across the highway.”

“Sure,” agreed Collman, of the Blue Plume. “They’d come over to my place and eat and talk. I guess,” he added, with a grin, “they liked my stuff better than Jim’s.”

“Looks like somebody figured out in advance how to bump Lanyon off,” Oakes suggested.

“Maybe,” said. Bouchet, dubiously. “But my guess is that Myrtle’s brother, young Deronda, did it. Anyhow, I came out last night and found him standing over the body. He ran away. I understand the bulls are on his trail. He’s a crazy kid, anyway, and he was pretty sore at Lanyon.”

“How long were you out in front of your place, Mr. Bouchet, before you saw the kid with the body?”

Bouchet looked at Oakes rather belligerently.

“I dunno. About fifteen or twenty minutes, I guess.”

“Lanyon was shot, was he?”

“Yep. Shot just once. A clean shot through the heart. No one heard the shot, so I guess the killer used a silencer. The bulls ain’t found the gun — Deronda could easy have ditched it before now.”

Oakes thought a moment.

“I thought I’d like to talk to the waiter that delivered the messages to the girl and to Lanyon. Figured maybe somebody arranged to have them messages delivered so that Lanyon would come out where the killer could get him.”

Collman turned to Bouchet with a wide smile.

“Mr. Oakes is way off there, ain’t he, Jim?”

Bouchet scowled.

“He sure is. Nothing to that, Mr. Oakes. Why, I phoned over to the Blue Plume myself, a message for Myrtle. You see, the other waitress I had working for me was supposed to work until four o’clock, but she got sick. So I wanted Myrtle to finish the night out in her place.”

“The other girl? Ain’t you got more than two girls working for you?”

“No. Only two. All the rest are men waiters.”

“Well,” Oakes commented, “that would account for the message to Myrtle, but how about the message the waiter gave to Lanyon a few minutes later — the message that made Lanyon get up and follow Myrtle across this way to the Broken Lantern?”

“Nothing to that, either,” said Bouchet. “Myrtle just agreed to work until four o’clock, then she phoned over to the Blue Plume to ask Lanyon to come back over here to the Broken Lantern.”

Oakes pushed his slouch hat back over his head, and scratched his pate.

“You gents are sure good to me,” he thanked them genially. “Giving me all this information. By the way, Mr. Bouchet, you say you discovered young Deronda standing over the body. Now, how come you were out of your place of business just then?”

Bouchet’s eyes flickered angrily.

“Me! What you mean? Why, I — it was a fine night last night, and I just came out for a little airing. I often do that when it’s a line night, don’t I, Collman?”

“You sure do,” Collman confirmed him.

“No offense meant,” Oakes placated them. “Just wanted to show how easy it is to throw suspicion on any one. You see, Mr. Bouchet, how difficult it might be for even you to produce an alibi?”

“I guess that’s right, too,” agreed Collman.

“And where were you, Mr. Collman, when Lanyon was shot?”

Collman stared at Oakes, his lips parted.

“Why, I... I guess I was down in my cellar about that time, looking over my stock.”

“Can you prove that? Did any one see you?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Oakes. I don’t remember. But I always go down to the cellar about that time of night. Don’t I, Jim?”

“You sure do,” Bouchet supported him.

Oakes grinned amiably.

“There you go!” he chaffed them. “Neither one of you could prove an alibi. But we won’t worry about that. Say, Mr. Bouchet, how about your waiters — the men? Any suspicious characters among ’em?”

Bouchet pondered a little.

“Not that I know of. Of course, you understand, they ain’t saints, none of them. But I don’t know nothing against them.”

“You got a list of your employees, ain’t you? Could I look at it?”

“Why, sure, I got a list — names, addresses and telephone numbers. I guess you could see it. Wait a minute.”

Bouchet hurried into the Broken Lantern and returned soon with a small notebook, which he handed to Oakes.

Oakes looked it through carefully, made a note or two on the back of an envelope, and handed the book back.

“I’m sure obliged to you gents,” he said heartily. “Say, I think I’d like to see the waiter — the one that delivered those messages to Miss Deronda and Lanyon. Where could I find him?”

“You’re lucky,” said Collman. “Usually, this time of day he’s in town, at home. But on account of the murder he’s had to stick around here this morning. You can get him right over in my place there, in the Blue Plume. His name is Hayden, Billy Hayden.”

“I’ll go right over,” said Oakes. “By the way, this bird that was killed was quite a lady’s man, wasn’t he?”

“Sure,” Collman grinned. “Lanyon was stuck on that other dame, wasn’t he, Jim?”

“Yep,” said Bouchet. “He used to come out and chin with the other waitress, the one that left early last night. That was before I hired Myrtle, though. Myrtle took his eye right away, and he ditched Clara.”

“Well, this other girl, Clara, she left the Broken Lantern last night just before the killing, did she?”

“I guess so,” Bouchet said. “Just a few minutes before.”

“Say,” said Oakes abruptly, “what’s the time?”

Collman glanced at his watch.

“Just about ten o’clock.”

“Thanks,” said Oakes.

III

In the center of the Blue Plume was an open space, a dancing floor. Around that were tables. And along the walls were curtained booths. The kitchen was in the rear.

There was no activity in the place when Oakes entered, except for a porter who was scrubbing floors at the back. The only other occupant was a man who was seated at one of the tables.

The solitary man looked up as Oakes came in. He appeared to be about fifty, pale faced, white haired, dark eyed; a typical waiter of the old school. Oakes sat down in a chair opposite him.

“Your name Hayden?”

The man nodded. Oakes introduced himself.

“You’re the man that delivered the messages to Myrtle Deronda and Sydney Lanyon last night?”

“Yes, sir”

“I suppose you realize that the message you delivered to Lanyon resulted in his death?”

The question seemed to startle the man.

“Well, it would seem so, sir.”

The waiter was obviously tired. Under ordinary circumstances, doubtless, he would have been in bed at this time of day. Oakes softened his tone.

“Mr. Bouchet, of the Broken Lantern, tells me that he telephoned the first message, the one to Miss Deronda. And she herself telephoned the message to Lanyon?”

“I believe that’s correct, sir.”

“And you conveyed both messages?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Were the messages written?”

“Yes, sir. The cashier at the desk took the messages over the phone, wrote them down on a slip of paper and gave them to me to deliver to the table?”

“Did either Miss Deronda or Lanyon make any comment when they received the messages?”

“Not that I recall, sir. That is, except that they were both put out at Miss Deronda’s having to go back to work.”

“Now, Hayden, when you gave Lanyon the message from the girl, did he go right out — that is, out the front door?”

“Certainly.”

“There’s a back door to the place, isn’t there?”

“Yes, sir. A kitchen door. But nobody uses it except the help.”

“And can you go along the outside of the building from the kitchen door to the highway?”

“Yes, sir. There’s a road comes in from the highway. Trucks with supplies drive right up to the kitchen door, on the south side.”

“Very good, Hayden. I like your straightforward answers. Now, show me the kitchen door, will you?”

Hayden lifted his eyebrows in surprise. But he got up promptly, and led the way back to the kitchen.

Oakes walked out of the kitchen door. He strolled thoughtfully down the narrow road along the building to the highway, then back again. His eyes were searching the ground. Hayden watched him curiously from the kitchen door.

Oakes returned, and reentered the kitchen. Hayden followed him. Just inside Oakes stopped. He was looking at a large sink that was close to the door.

“Dishwasher work there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, now, the dishwasher that was working last night from two o’clock on — I suppose he’s home now.”

“No,” said Hayden. “It happens that he’s here. That’s him just inside the dining room, Mr. Oakes. Tom comes to work at one in the morning. He relieves the first dishwasher. Tom washes dishes until the place closes up, then he does the porter work. That’s why he’s here now.”

“Guess I’ll talk to Tom, then,” Oakes said. “By the way, Hayden, what’s the time?”

Hayden took his watch out, opened it.

“Close to ten thirty.”

“Thanks. Say, that picture you got in your watch — she’s some good looker. Daughter, is she?”

“No, sir,” said Hayden, closing the watch. “Just a friend.”

“Well,” said Oakes, “got to hurry. Guess I’ll talk to Tom first though. You can go now, Hayden.”

Hayden went back to the dining room. Oakes called to the man who was busy at the scrubbing.

Tom was a young man, slight of stature, eager of eve, and distinctly greasy of aspect. He clearly belonged to that unfortunate group of human’s who, in spite of a ready grasp of details, never succeed in mastering any but the most menial positions.

“Now, Tom,” Oakes confided. “I’m working on this murder case. I want you to help me.”

Tom’s eves shone like twin stars.

“Me! Gosh!”

“Yeah! Now, where were you between two and three o’clock last night?”

“Me! Why, I was hanging over that tub there, massaging dishes.”

“Think, now, Tom, are you sure you—”

“Hey! Wait a minute!” Tom began to get excited. “I did quit the sink for a while.”

“When was that?”

“I dunno just what time it was. No occasion to look. But I was gone about half an hour, I guess.”

“Now you’re getting hot,” Oakes commended him warmly. “What were you doing while you were away from the sink?”

“I was shaving spuds.”

“Shaving spuds! Think of that now!”

“Yes, sir. I remember because I was just going to leave the sink when up comes Billy Hayden. That’s the waiter you was talking to. And Billy says, why, he says, you can’t leave the sink now, Tom, to fix them spuds, because you’ll be swamped with dishes before you get back.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“Oh, I tells him that I got to go and shave them spuds because Mr. Coil-man himself ordered me to.”

“So Mr. Collman ordered you to peel the potatoes right away, did he?”

“Sure. He was down in the cellar, and he comes up — the cellar door is right over in that corner — and tells me to barber the spuds right away.”

“And after Mr. Collman told you to fix the potatoes, where did he go?”

“He went back down in the cellar.”

“And where did you work on the potatoes, Tom?”

“Why, back in the vegetable room. There’s a little room way back there, back of the kitchen, where they keep the vegetables. That’s where I always shave the spuds.”

Oakes was beaming on Tom delightedly.

“Say, Tom, you’re a smart guy. Now, there must have been some reason why Mr. Collman wanted you to fix the spuds right away. And I bet you he didn’t fool a clever lad like you. What do you suppose was the reason?”

Tom suddenly lost some of his enthusiasm. For a moment he seemed to be tongue tied.

“Don’t be afraid,” Oakes encouraged him. “If you lose one job, a brainy guy like you can always get another.”

“Well,” said Tom, reassured, although he lowered his voice, “when I’m in the stock room I can’t see the cellar door nor the kitchen door.”

“Ah!” said Oakes. “You mean maybe they was taking something out or in that they didn’t want you to see?”

“Sure. I know there was a truck drove up to the kitchen door not long before Mr. Collman told me to go and fix the spuds.”

“Fine, Tom! Now, what do you figure it was they didn’t want you to see?”

Tom lowered his voice another notch.

“Hooch!” he whispered.

“Oh!” said Oakes.

“Yes, sir,” Tom went on, gathering courage. “Mr. Collman’s got a couple of other places, but he keeps most of his hooch here. They can’t fool me. And that truck that was outside the kitchen door when I went to shave the spuds, it w as gone when I got back to the sink, Mr. Oakes.”

“You don’t say!” Oakes surveyed Tom admiringly. “It’s a good thing there’s a wide awake chap like you around here, Tom.”

“Yes, sir,” Tom admitted.

“Now, don’t tell any one about this, Tom. I’ve got to go now, but you’ve been a great help to me.”

“All right, Mr. Oakes. I’m sure glad you spoke to me about it.”

Oakes shook hands with the dishwasher, and left. Instead of going out through the dining room, however, he went through the kitchen door to the side road.

A few feet from the door he stopped, stooped quickly and scooped up a small and crumpled piece of paper. He straightened it out, glanced at it. It was a scrawled note, reading:

Oakes folded the note up and inserted it in his vest pocket. He walked slowly down the road toward the highway.

As he reached the highway, Collman of the Blue Plume was coming across from the opposite side, having apparently just parted from his friendly competitor of the Broken Lantern, Mr. Jim Bouchet.

“Did you see Hayden?” inquired Collman.

“Who? Oh, you mean the waiter? Sure, I saw him. Nice old chap.”

Collman gazed at him, rather doubtfully.

“Learn anything?” he asked.

“Sure,” said Oakes.

“What?”

“That dishwashers are smart people,” Oakes told him.

The answer did not seem to satisfy Collman. His lips appeared to be framing another question, but a bus swung around the bend in the highway, and Oakes trudged out to hail it.

IV

Back in town, Hugo Oakes was presently standing in front of a small, shabby house on a shabby street. He rang the bell. A middle-aged woman, small of stature, somewhat old-fashioned in dress, and plainly worried, opened the door.

“I want to see Miss Myrtle Deronda,” said Oakes.

“She isn’t here just now,” said the woman. “Can I do anything for you? I’m her mother.”

“No,” said Oakes. “I want to see her. Where is she?”

Mrs. Deronda hesitated.

“Is it about this dreadful murder?”

“Oh, it ain’t such a dreadful murder,” Oakes comforted her. “Nothing messy about it; just a shot through the heart.”

The woman seemed on the verge of tears.

“I never wanted Myrtle to work in that road house,” she lamented. “And I never did thrust that Mr. Lanyon.”

“Well, Mrs. Deronda,” said Oakes, “these young women are hard to handle. But I got to talk to the girl. It’s in the interest of your son. So you better tell me where she is.”

“She’s with Clara.”

“Clara?”

“Yes. Clara Fanning. That’s the other girl that worked at the Broken Lantern. She lives in a rooming house a couple of blocks away, down this street — number 2349.”

Oakes thanked the woman, and left with as much speed as he could manage.

Clara had a room on the second floor of the rooming house to which Mrs. Deronda had sent him. At the door, the landlady directed him, and he wheezed up a flight of stairs. In a few moments he discovered that he was unusually ill at ease; he was in a room with two young women, both of them quite dangerously good looking.

“Which of you is Miss Deronda?” he asked.

“That’s me,” said one of them. Myrtle Deronda was dark, with challenging black eyes, stubborn little chin and daringly fashioned lips. She was sitting on the arm of a large chair.

Oakes turned to the other one, who was sunk deep in the same chair. Her eyes and hair were brown, a gentler type than the Deronda girl, and probably some years older, but still quite handsome. She was clearly distressed, and the younger one seemed to have assumed the role of comforter.

“Then you must be Clara Fanning?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sorry to disturb you two ladies,” Oakes apologized, “but I’m representing Miss Deronda’s brother. He’s in the can... er... that is, he’s under arrest, you know.”

Myrtle’s eyes flashed.

“He’s a crazy kid. He ought to stay home nights, where he belongs.”

“Maybe,” Oakes suggested bravely, “that might be a good plan for you, too.”

“Say! I don’t need no bodyguard,” the girl flared at him.

“Well, maybe you don’t,” Oakes hastily retracted. “But we got to get the boy out, or they’ll send him up for murder.”

“Poor kid!” Myrtle changed her tone at once.

“Now, Miss Deronda, you was over at the Blue Plume with this fellow Lanyon not long before he was shot?”

“Sure.”

“Then Mr. Bouchet of the Broken Lantern called you up to ask you to work the rest of the night in Clara’s place?”

“Yes. Clara felt ill and had to go home. So, of course, I worked for her.”

“Then you called up and sent a message to Lanyon suggesting that he come back over to the Broken Lantern?”

“Where do you get that ‘suggesting’ stuff? I just said for him to come right over.”

“Those messages were written, weren’t they?”

“Sure.”

Oakes leaned forward, a stubby forefinger raised.

“Now, think hard, Miss Deronda. What happened to the written message that was delivered to you?”

“Why, I think... well, I guess I put in my pocketbook. Then I... oh, now I remember! Just before I got up to go, I was rummaging in my pocket-book for a handkerchief, and. I took the message out again, and handed it to Syd Lanyon.”

“And do you know what he did with it?”

“No.”

“Well, it don’t matter, I know.”

“You know?”

“Yeah,” said Oakes. “He put it in his pocket.”

“How do you know—”

“Never mind,” Oakes grinned. “But I want to be sure about this: who would write those messages out before the waiter took them?”

“The cashier of the Blue Plume,” said Myrtle Deronda, impatiently.

Oakes sat grinning into space for a few moments. Then he turned again to Clara Fanning.

“And what did you do when you left the Broken Lantern?”

“I caught the bus, sir.”

“Did you catch it right outside the Broken Lantern?”

The young woman hesitated.

“Well, no, sir. The bus has another stop farther down the highway, about a quarter of a mile. So I walked down there to meet it.”

“And why, young lady, didn’t you catch it right outside? Why walk a quarter of a mile?”

Clara Fanning’s fingers were twitching nervously. Myrtle was fidgeting on the arm of the chair.

“Well, sometimes, standing in front of the road house there, some of the men might be annoying.”

“Some of the men! Now, tell the truth. Don’t you mean one man in particular?”

“Perhaps.”

“What’s his name?”

“I... I can’t tell you that.”

“What man has a small picture of you?”

“I can’t tell you that, either.”

“Oh, you can’t!” Oakes was getting brusque. “Isn’t it a fact that this Sydney Lanyon was an... er... admirer of yours, before this other young lady cut you out?”

“Aw, shut up!” put in Myrtle.

But Clara, flushing, admitted that it was true.

“Now,” said Oakes, “according to \our story, you were up the road, waiting for the bus when Lanyon was shot?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ah! But can you prove it? Have you any proof that you weren’t right there in front of the Broken Lantern when Lanyon—”

“Cut that out!” the other girl snapped at him.

Myrtle Deronda had jumped off the chair, and was standing in front of Oakes, shaking her little fist in his face.

“But, my dear girl,” said Oakes, soothingly, “I’m only working up a case for your brother. I’ve got to—”

“Say! If you have to drag Clara into this mess so you can get Larry out, why, you can just let the dear boy stay in the can.”

Oakes stared at her blankly. Then he shrugged his shoulders.

“Oh, all right.” He put his hat on. “You two ladies will be going out to work again to-night, will you?”

“Sure,” said Myrtle, “if you’ll get out so we can get some sleep.”

Oakes muttered apologetically. Then he stumbled to the door, murmured some apologies, and went out.

Downstairs, he stopped at the landlady’s office, and asked permission to use the telephone. He called headquarters, asked for Inspector Mallory.

“Sent you a customer this morning,” he reminded Mallory.

“Uh huh. We were looking for him. We’d have got him anyway.”

“You guys never do give anybody else any credit,” Oakes complained.

“Well,” conceded Mallory, “if you think you’ve got something coming, name your price.”

“I want you to drive me out to the Broken Lantern to-night, about eight o’clock,” said Oakes promptly.

Mallory grumbled, but agreed.

“To show you that I’m looking out for your interest,” Oakes added cheerfully. “I’ll give you another live tip.”

“All right. Spill it.”

“About the time that Lanyon was getting shot, there was a truck — a booze truck — belonging to Collman, standing out in the road, near the kitchen door of the Blue Plume.”

“Well, I ain’t friendly with the liquor squad,” Mallory objected.

“Maybe you ain’t. But get a couple of your men to trace that truck. Right away. Find the truck, and look it over carefully.”

“That all?” said Mallory, sarcastically.

“That’s all — until eight o’clock tonight.”

V

“Well, inspector,” said Oakes, when Mallory picked him up in a police car at eight o’clock, “we’re going to meet a murderer.”

Mallory was having a difficult time concealing his curiosity.

“We got young Deronda—”

“Yeah. You got him. And you’ll let him loose before the night’s over.”

“Oh, well,” Mallory hedged, “we was only holding him on suspicion. I been keeping an eye on a couple of others.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Them two road house babies, Bouchet and Collman, are kind of interesting. They’re tough lads. And did you notice they ain’t neither one got an alibi?”

“Sure. But that’s in their favor,” Oakes commented.

“In their favor! How do you get that way?”

“Listen, inspector. Bouchet and Collman maybe ain’t had the benefit of a good education, like you, for instance. But they’re pretty wise birds, at that. And if either one of them was going to stage a killing, that’s the first thing he’d arrange — a good alibi!”

Mallory looked disappointed.

“Well, anyway, I got a couple of pair of bracelets—”

“You won’t need ’em, inspector,” Oakes assured him,

Mallory, puzzled, turned to look at him.

“Why, say, you don’t mean that one of them two girls perforated Lanyon—”

“First,” Oakes interrupted, “did you find that truck?”

“Sure. I’ll give you credit for that, Oakes. That was a hot one. We found the truck.”

“And there was blood on the rear end?”

“Right you are. But how—”

“Just a matter of working on the most likely angles, inspector. You will remember that Jim Bouchet, proprietor of the Broken Lantern, was walking around outside his place of business at the time of the murder. But, so far as I could see, he was not a likely suspect. He would have gone to more trouble to cover his tracks.

“Yet, if some one else had shot Lanyon right where his body was found, Bouchet was almost sure to have seen or heard something. Well, he saw nothing and heard nothing. Therefore, the body must have been dropped there. And it must have been dropped from a moving vehicle, else there would have been blood leading up to the spot.

“All right. How? I knew the answer when Tom, the dishwasher, told me about the truck.”

“You ain’t accusing the dishwasher, are you?” Mallory waxed sarcastic. “If not, who are we after?”

“I found the answer to that one just outside the kitchen door of the Blue Plume,” said Oakes.

“What was that?”

“The second message. The message that the waiter delivered to Lanyon.”

“And who does that take us to?”

“We’ll see when we get there,” Oakes countered.

“Well, now, about this message—”

“Here we are at the Blue Plume,” Oakes put in. “Let’s hop to it.”

Inside the Blue Plume, business was slack; it was too early in the evening for the crowd. Collman, the proprietor, was sitting near his cashier, close to the door. He looked at Oakes with disagreeable surprise.

Oakes, however, paid no attention to Collman; he approached the cashier, a middle-aged woman with watchful eyes.

“Say, write ‘meet me at the kitchen door’ on a piece of paper for me,” Oakes instructed her bluntly.

The woman, startled, looked at Collman. And Collman looked at Mallory.

“That’s the law with him,” Collman told his cashier. “Better do as he says.”

She hesitated, then scrawled on a scrap of paper. Oakes took it, scrutinized it.

“Now, you, Collman.”

“Me!” said Collman. “Don’t kid me. Why, I can’t hardly write at all.”

“Thought not,” Oakes said, and turned to the cashier again.

“Say, lady, do your waiters write out their checks? Do they put down what a customer orders on the checks?”

“Sure,” said the woman. “There’s a stack of ’em on that spindle. And each waiter initials his own checks, too.”

Oakes ran through the stack rapidly, and presently lifted one. It was initialed in the corner, “B. H.”

“Let’s go see Billy Hayden,” said Oakes to Mallory.

The waiter was standing near the kitchen door at the back of the dining room. Oakes and Mallory crossed toward him. Oakes drew him aside, into a corner. He spoke to him, not unkindly.

“It’s all over, Hayden.”

The waiter looked at him steadily, his pale face set rigid.

“What is it, sir?”

“No good to bluff,” said Oakes. “You tricked Sydney Lanyon into going around to the kitchen door, by way of the road along the side of the building. There you shot him, loaded the body on to the back of a truck, rode with it out to the highway, and dumped it in front of the Broken Lantern. You returned the same way.”

Billy Hayden was silent.

“It was the message — that second message — that gave you away, Hayden.”

Oakes brought the crumpled piece of paper from his vest pocket, and unfolded it. Mallory leaned over his shoulder and read:

“Your handwriting, ain’t it, Hayden?” Oakes insisted.

The waiter was still silent.

“You figured on taking this slip of paper away from him when you shot him,” Oakes went on. “But there was a slip up. Myrtle gave Lanyon the first message before she left, and it was that message that you took out of Lanyon’s pocket. This one — it was all crumpled up — must have been clasped in his hand, and he dropped it on the ground just as you were shooting him.”

Still Hayden said nothing.

“Snap out of it,” Mallory barked. “You had better come across.”

But the waiter paid no attention at all to Mallory.

“You can see that the case is complete against you,” Oakes proceeded, almost coaxingly. “But I might add that if you don’t confess to the killing you will place some one else, a lady, in a dangerous position.”

For the first time the lines on the waiter’s face changed. Presently he spoke, reluctantly:

“A lady? Who?”

“Clara Fanning. Miss Fanning left the Broken Lantern just before Lanyon was shot. She has no alibi—”

“Clara had nothing to do with it,” Hayden broke in hastily.

“I might as well tell you the facts, sir,” he went on, after a pause. “There’s not much to it. I’ve been fond — too fond — of Clara for some time.”

“Yeah,” Oakes put in. “I noticed that picture of Clara in your watch this morning.”

“But she did not encourage me. I was too old, although no older than that snake, Lanyon. For a few weeks Clara was deceived by Lanyon. She was living in a fool’s paradise. Then he deserted her for the other girl. It hurt her terribly. I hated him for it. I often wished I could kill him, planned to do it.

“Then, last night, the chance came, when Clara had to leave work because of illness. And Clara’s illness itself enraged me all the more, sir, because I was sure he was the cause of it.

“Everything seemed to fit in so beautifully. The truck was out by the kitchen door. The driver was down in the cellar. Nobody in the kitchen would notice me going out and in, except Tom, and he was back in the storeroom.

“When that second message came from Myrtle to Lanyon, I destroyed it and wrote another one; it was so easy. You seem to have learned it all, sir. I went out by way of the kitchen, shot him, loaded his body on the truck, which I knew would leave soon. It took a bare five minutes, and nobody noticed my absence.

“And,” he added, “I’m not the least bit sorry.”

Oakes put his hand on Hayden’s shoulder.

“Say, this Lanyon killing gave me a client this morning — young Larry Deronda. Now I’ve lost my client, and I need another one. How about it?”

Hayden looked at him hopelessly.

“But I have no money, sir.”

Oakes laughed.

“Money! My dear man! The very last thing I ever expect of a client is money!”